Ambivalence in a Bottle
by Upgrade Me
Summary: A collection of one/more-shots ranging from dark to light and black to white. Some canon, some AU, some happy some sad, some are slash some are friendship. Writing as diverse as Holmes' moods. Ratings vary from K to M.
1. The Art of Combat

A collection of one/more-shots ranging from dark to light and black to white. Some canon, some AU, some happy some sad, some are slash some are friendship. Writing as diverse as Holmes' moods. Ratings vary from K to M.

I haven't abandoned 'Que Sera Sera', sometimes you get ideas in your head that just won't leave you alone, you know what I mean? Well... Here we go then, wish me luck. This collection of one/more-shots will forever be in progress and will be updated randomly.

Reviews would be very much appreciated =]

Warnings: Slash!

I am uncertain as to how he managed to persuade me to brush up on my hand to hand skills in the first place. He has taken it upon himself to personally find any and all weaknesses in my unarmed fighting technique, and for the past fifteen minutes he has responded to my feeble efforts with ''No Watson, you have once again failed to cover both your right and left side simultaneously! Again, this time with determination! Concentration is the key!'' or ''Watson, your footwork is atrocious! At this rate, you will trip! Surely you are capable of much more than you are currently demonstrating?''.

At this moment in time, he has _generously _granted me a moments break (exactly 5 minutes according to Holmes), a break I intend to fully make use of. I light my pipe, blowing a few experimental puffs as the flame begins to ignite my chosen tobacco, observing him thoughtfully as he mimics my actions. He blinks, his liquid silver eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second as he exhales a particularly large cloud of smoke into the room. There is an unusual spark in his eye tonight. I avert my gaze a little too quickly.

The room is too hot for my liking, but, of course, no windows are to be open. According to Holmes, many of our past and future brawls do not allow for the comfort of good ventilation, and he wishes to ''recreate the most common conditions that we are both used to fighting in, in order for my skills to improve as if I were fighting any other opponent.'' At some point during this trail of thought, I notice that I have wasted most of my precious break on idle speculation. I sigh, and instead I opt to follow with my eyes the way Holmes' fingers tap the edge of his own pipe. For a second I feel like rushing past the curious man standing in front of me to open the windows anyway. I decide against it, despite feeling my body temperature steadily rise.

His smoke curls around a lit candle on the table undeterred by said heat, mocking me as I try to convince myself in vain that the sudden warmth I feel around my collar is the product of the obvious lack of ventilation. Of course it is. The sound of Holmes' voice drags me from my dark thoughts, yet I struggle to meet his gaze once more. Oh how far you have fallen John Watson, how far indeed.

''Ready for round two? Or, are you perhaps wanting to back down and surrender?''

I blink, scandalised at such a suggestion and scandalised even further that he would mention surrender to me after knowing of my time abroad in the field. Setting down my pipe carefully, I reply defiantly, raising my fists like he had shown me. ''Not a chance old boy, you do credit your experience in this area of combat too highly!''.

This of course earns me a surprised expression, then a small smile that sends a curious shiver down my spine. I decide then and there that a smile such as that, the kind of smile he dons when he is the first to deduce the available facts and thus come to an accurate conclusion, is a warning to be heeded in such a situation as this.

This has to be one of the most distinguishing characteristics of my... colleague? Friend? Pest? I am unsure. He is- no. Let me rephrase. He _has_ always has been and certainly always will be a man of many odd habits and odder luck, but I must say his most agitating and endearing characteristic yet is his ability to gain the upper hand, no matter the time or situation, place, opponent or activity. He is still smiling when I move forwards suddenly and aim a slack jab with my right hand to the left area of his chest. I hesitate for a second, a mere second, still unwilling to properly hit him. Too late, he takes full advantage of my momentary weakness and deflects my attempt at a fist strike with the outer area of his left elbow whilst simultaneously grabbing my left wrist. I try to ignore the searing sensation of his skin on mine; the heat of his hand even hotter than my own.

With both arms temporarily disabled, Holmes wastes no time and charges forwards with enough strength and speed to catch me completely off guard. His chest hits mine, the blunt trauma winding me slightly, forcing me backwards despite my attempts to remain upright. His boxing has gifted him with a surprising amount of strength concealed within a tall, thin frame, and I soon find to my horror that he has pushed me so far back so quickly that the back of my legs hit the low table behind me and I fall, taking the now extinguished candle with me.

My vision is instantly flipped 90 degrees, and I find myself staring at the ceiling. My back collides with the floor harder then I would have expected; it was indeed lucky the candle had gone out before it hit me. I lift my head slightly to see Holmes standing at the other side of the coffee table, his hands in waistcoat pockets, wearing an expression of triumph. ''What, pray tell, did I tell you concerning your foot work? Such a blow would have easily been avoidable had you moved your left leg backwards. Your body weight would have been distributed more to that leg, and it would have acted as an anchor for you to produce an effective counter.''

My head hits the floor once more, and I close my eyes. They don't need to be open for me to know that Holmes is doing that inquisitive... _thing _with his left eyebrow. He lets loose a loud ''Hah!'', which of course thoroughly startles me, and suddenly the stifling temperature of the room gets the better of my senses. I see him turn from the table and practically _stalk _over to the window to gaze at the full moon and the emptiness of the street; I slowly rise to my feet and reach for my cane.

His back is still to me as I take a step forwards, unsheathing the concealed blade with an artful practised elegance that I had acquired over the years of using such a weapon. I ensure he hears the metallic _sching _of its unsheathing and the sound the blade makes as it slices through the air. I bring around to his left cheek in one fluid motion of my wrist and apply a slight amount of pressure; not enough to cut as long as he remains looking forwards. Adrenaline courses through my veins and I swear he freezes completely for a second, caught off guard by my sudden boldness.

''Watson...''

He says my name, low and breathlessly; _sensually, _and I feel a well mixed combination of lust and pure needrush south at an alarming speed. The man isn't even looking at me directly and I can _feel_ the burn of his gaze, the flicker of a candle reflected against tempered silver.

His eyes close abruptly; I watch through our reflection on the glass, both his and my own composure dangerously close to slipping. It is almost as if he is _savouring_ the feel of razor-sharp steel against the tender flesh of his face, _savouring_ the dangerous instrument at his cheekbone. I bite my tongue somewhat harshly. I taste blood; I would have never thought Holmes to be a closet masochist for physical pain, not until he, eyes still closed and breathing still shallow, slowly, _deliberately, _turns his head to the left, grazing his cheek against the recently sharpened edge of my blade. I hold my breath as a single droplet of blood runs from the shallow wound beneath his eye in a twisted parody of a rouge tear.

My breath is still held painfully within my chest as that single droplet runs further still, staining a thin trail of crimson. It is a stark contrast against his ivory skin, an accidental splash of colour against an artists monochrome masterpiece that only serves to hint at yet another mystery entirely; the legend that is the great Sherlock Holmes. His own personal mystery. It takes every last shred of self restraint to witness that ruby tear reach its final destination, caressing the corner of his mouth, staining it lovingly, like it did his skin, bright red. He repeats my name thrice over in the same sensual manner as before yet I am unprepared for the flash of crazy calm in his eyes as he does so. My breathing becomes irregular despite my best efforts to retain its normalcy.

''Watson... Watson... Watson...''

I cannot trust myself to speak and before I can lower my blade and back off a respectable distance, my strange flatmate regains his composure instantly. Something about the way he positively _smirks_ as his tongue darts out to the side of his mouth to gather that gem of blood tells me his composure never left him to begin with. The great Shikari-Moran was indeed a fool to ever dream of killing this hunter, for this creature is far more dangerous and far, far more intelligent than any tiger.

''My dearest, dearest Watson...''

Those eyes of his stare straight into my soul, and suddenly all becomes too clear for comfort. I am found out and I am a dead man, for I have seen better men hang for lesser evils, minor vices in comparison than that which I desire with all of my pathetic existence. He should turn me away but he doesn't, he should turn me in, but he hasn't yet made a move and I simply cannot fathom why! His smile and that curious glint in his eye is telling me that my... 'affliction' is hardly a new piece of the puzzle, but his eyes... why do they challenge me to reveal more, to act upon my wants?

''I am indeed aware of your most... immoral... alignment...''

Once again, his ability to probe into my innermost thoughts astounds me, even in my current state of arousal and shock. My blood runs ice-cold despite the persistent, lingering heat about my collar and I find myself praying to false gods and long forgotten deities that he doesn't delve deeper, lest he find scenarios that I am none too proud to have conjured up guiltily during those lonely restless nights - those nights where sleep eluded me with a vengeance, the sound of his violin sorrowfully penetrating the thin walls of our residence, forcing my hand lower against my will, rendering me powerless to resist. Again, his voice pulls me from my dangerous trail of thought, yet it cannot pull the flush from my face nor rid the grin from his.

''There is nothing you betray in your actions on a daily basis to suggest your... questionable alignment to other people... particularly and most importantly our _dear _friends over at Scotland Yard. I assure you that you are quite safe, as I am sworn to silence. Your reputation...'' He pauses thoughtfully as his eyes glance to his reflection upon my blade. ''And neck will remain entirely whole.'' Somehow I find my voice, but am unable to keep it as steady as I would have preferred.

''Holmes... How can you remain in my presence after deducing such a terrible secret? Such an unspeakable perversion... '' I trail off. I feel the rest is unnecessary to speak of. He blinks, but only once, presenting me with another cat-like smile, his metallic eyes reflecting against my drawn blade, creating an illusion that there is not two, but four of those hypnotic orbs watching my every move, calculating, cataloguing my every reaction.

''Why should I turn tail from one of my own kind, Watson? That would make me a terrible hypocrite, would it not?''

Something inside my mind snaps, my very soul feels constricted but strangely _alive_ all at the same time, yet this revelation is too much for both my body mind to comprehend and I find myself frozen to the spot with such rigidity that my whole body aches from the unconscious strain. Words fail me again for the second time tonight and I can only stare with my mouth slack as he raises his eyebrows at my reaction. It is his next move that unfreezes my voice; he laughs, in an octave deeper then his usual voice, he _laughs_. Low, breathlessly, so utterly _him_, he laughs in a tone that I have never heard him use and _lord _it inflames me. If I wasn't going to hell before tonight, I surely am now.

My eyes narrow as I speak, my tone as low and dangerous as his yet nowhere near as controlled. I understood him perfectly well yet can't help but question him. Something deep within demands he elaborate and spell it out word for word, each syllable for my ears and mine alone. For me, only me. ''One of your own kind, Holmes?''

His eyes never leave mine, even as he lifts up a hand and runs the tip of his forefinger down the flat length of my blade lightly, as if inspecting for dust by touch alone. I shudder at the implications of such an action. Such an innocent movement should not command my body as I find it doing.

''Yes... I do believe what I said was to that effect.''

''Do not toy with me Sherlock Holmes! This game you're playing, explain yourself!''

My voice rings harshly in my own ears, I know for a fact I did not intend to come across so... angry. Holmes however, appears to be completely deaf to my outburst, and chooses to answer with another small smirk. I increase the pressure of my blade against his cheek.

Apparently, he is also deaf to warning, as he responds with another ''Hah!'' and turns to face me, this time grazing the bridge of his nose against the razor edge of my sword. My eyes widen in horror as he finally stands facing me; I hastily step backwards. Perhaps it was shame. Or, perhaps... perhaps I felt small amount of fear.

''This is no game Watson, although you do present me with a perfect opportunity to say 'your move.''

I glare at him, jaw clenched, sword still raised. '' My move is it?'' I lower my blade to his neck and increase the pressure, ensuring the skin breaks. It doesn't take much; the blade slices through his flesh without having to apply any friction. I smile somewhat sadistically when he winces; my 'move' created a thin slice, mimicking a paper-cut. ''Checkmate.''

He follows my movements with his eyes grinning all the while, even through my cut, and I find my reason slowly being taken away by his proximity. He brings two fingers to his lips, silently closing his eyes. I have seen him do this on many an occasion, but never in a situation so inappropriate and so damn _arousing_. ''Do you intend to hurt me... Watson?'' He sounds infuriatingly amused. I ignore him, not wanting to ask myself the same question.

''Explain yourself Holmes.''

Another smile. ''Then perhaps I should level the playing field?''

I freeze, and before I can utter a single word, her reaches for his belt and takes out a revolver. _My service revolver. _

He must have had it concealed under the back of his waistcoat, and, like a fool, I missed it in my eagerness to surprise him. He flicks open the chamber, tutting. Of course... The chamber is full. I loaded it this morning. Shrugging, he spins the chamber playfully and slowly backs away from my blade.

''Holmes-''

He cocks the gun in amusement and aims it at me, the sound itself silencing me, but he finds it fitting to cut me off regardless with an sharp ''Be quiet Watson!''. I lower my sword abruptly before I even realise it, before I can even think about stopping myself. I could never quite stop myself from obeying when his demands when spoken in that tone of voice. My military training has rooted itself too deeply into my mind, corrupting all. Sometimes I am simply powerless to overcome it. His orders should _not_ effect me as they do, but they does anyway. No doubt he knows this already; I am certain he does. ''Three times tonight you have nicked me with your blade, once was completely your own doing. I think three shots should do it.''

''Do what, Holmes?'' I reply, my voice akin to the very steel I am holding. I stare him resolutely in the eye.

''Bullets Watson. Three bullets aimed at your person should level the game out completely, don't you think? Oh I do love a good game and I know for a fact you enjoy a game of chance.''

He fires the first over my weak shoulder; it lodges it firmly in the wall behind me. I do not physically react, at least not in the typical sense of the word given this situation, but the sight of him stood there, wielding my gun, baring marks that I gave him, looking at ME, half crazed with the thrill of the fight... It does damnable things to my mind and suddenly my trousers feel too tight. I blush and he notices; of _course_ he notices, and he positively smirks with satisfaction.

''I think I am not the only one who is enjoying this situation a little too much... '' He cocks the gun again; I wince and close my eyes, thanking the Lord on high that Miss Hudson had chosen this particular weekend to visit her sister up north. I open my eyes once more to see he has brought those two fingers to his mouth again. He is thinking, deducing, planning. ''John Watson... You will by under no circumstances interrupt what I am about to say. Failure to comply with my simple _request w_ill result in another shot being fired. I cannot guarantee your absolute safety, only you have that power. Have I made myself absolutely clear?''

His voice has lowered to that sensual tone I adore so much. How can I possibly refuse? ''Answer me, Watson.'' I nod hastily. I almost jump out of my skin when he fires another shot over my other shoulder. ''No Watson. _Answer_ me.''

Again with that silk-soft tone... ''Yes Holmes. As you wish.''

He smiles lightly but doesn't lower my gun even an inch. There is something... _dark_ about the way he stares at me, yet I cannot place it. Or, perhaps I can indeed place it, but desperately restrained myself from doing so. Denial is a wonderful thing. Holmes raises his eyebrows a little, as if to agree with me. ''Now... Where to begin? I suppose I will start by elaborating on what I actually meant, even though I am well aware that you already know full well the meaning behind my words. Yes, I suffer from the same affliction as you yourself have battled with over the course of time, although unlike yourself, I have successfully managed to fully embrace said affliction.''

I open my mouth to speak, but he jars my revolver sharply to draw attention to the fact that it is _him_ in control of the situation and _not_ myself. I am desperate for him to let me speak. I beg with my eyes for him to give me the time I need to absorb all that has already transpired. It it simply too much for me. The opportunity doesn't come. Instead, smouldering liquid silver meets my gaze and I am reduced to clenching my fist, the glove squeaking loudly as leather is forced against leather. He smiles and continues on, his sensual tone softening slightly yet still an octave lower than usual. ''I first realised I was an invert at the age of seventeen, although I will not enlighten you with the details of my discovery right now. Perhaps when you too come to terms with what you are and learn to accept that it is no great perversion as you are currently so adamant upon insisting, I will share the details of my dark and... _pleasurable_... past...''

He pauses momentarily to watch me fail to suppress a shiver, then continues on. ''Yes, I have known that you are indeed an invert for quite some time now. I have watched you Watson; the way you move or react in certain situations; I have collected data and catalogued your every preference down to the most minute detail, and come to a conclusion that it is quite possible for you to come to terms with what you are. I will not stand and simply watch you exist in torment; I will assist you.''

I make to object, to voice my discomfort, but he snarls a warning at me and I am silenced once again. Such aggression... Lord, the realm of hell itself will be my final destination, for I find I _enjoy_ the abuse and cannot stop my body from reacting as it does. I disgust myself. Assist me how? How could he possibly? I watch him run his tongue across the front of his teeth, as though simply speaking of my perversion out aloud taxes him. He feels he should not _have_ to give this topic a voice, yet as much as I try to stop him, I want to hear more. He obliges me, his tone gliding across my senses me as silk would. ''No, I have never taken it upon myself to follow your trail whenever you choose to seek out companionship, even as interesting as I am sure those occasions are. You are not alone in this respect; there has been many an occasion where I have sought the same nocturnal relief as you, yet I always do so whilst you were away from Baker Street. Your presence here is distraction enough, even if I can think of more interesting ways to pass the time between cases.''

Images of Holmes doing as I had done on those nights flood my thoughts before I have chance to stop them, and I have to turn away from him lest he see the unrestrained lust in my eyes and the more physical reaction of my body. I know it is a futile effort, a wasted movement. He has already read the contents of my mind, already knows of my unforgivable sins. Curiosity pulls at me; I wish to know more but I simply cannot face him. There is a click and I know he is inspecting the ammunition left in the chamber of my gun. It is another warning, a warning I must ignore with every fibre of by being. I attempt to leave and seek the comforts of my own room, but the fluid, almost musical tone of his voice freeze me where I stand. ''Watson...''

He takes a step or two forwards until he is pressed flat to my back. I dare not move; the heat of his body against mine sets fire to every nerve ending. I should flee. I don't. I can't. Here and now, right this moment, right this very second, we are held in the light of a single candle. Nobody else exists. We are but two solitary figures, both soothed by the steady synchronised ticking of our pocket watches. We are timeless. Ageless. Flawed to sheer perfection, projected and enhanced by the flicker of a temporary flame. He reaches around me; his hand snaking up underneath my shirt; a weightless entity bestowing feather-light touches; benevolence to an undeserving soul. I feel the cold steel of the gun against my chest; the smooth surface of the barrel daring me to breath. ''Your sins are nothing in comparison to mine, John...''

He is taller and much more graceful in his movements than I. I feel him bend slightly to whisper at my ear; feel his heated breath tickle my overly sensitive skin. His tongue glides against my neck and I stutter a choked nonsensical response; he hums deliciously low in approval and tastes my neck a second time, more for my reaction than the taste of my sweat and unease. I shiver. He almost breathes his next sentence, each word designed to debauch me and everything I ever stood for, everything I could ever stand for. ''Give in to me...''

With the uttering of those four words I know I am his tonight, regardless of any protests the tattered remnants of my morality may make. With my sword in hand, the devil himself at my back and the roar of depravity and lust pounding within my veins, I brace myself for the inevitable: I have never been able to deny Sherlock Holmes anything. My body and soul are apparently no exception.


	2. Strings

Authors Notes: I wrote this as Canon as possible. Reviews are welcome as always =]

I remember the very first time I was invited to watch and listen to Holmes playing his violin. It was some weeks after the dramatic conclusion of the case we both have come to refer to as 'A Study in Scarlet', and the night was a particularly dreary one. After snapping a string and the bow of his violin in a violent crescendo of his black mood, Holmes had quite literally stormed from our rooms and into the pouring rain without either his coat or hat.

Of course, I myself had been the trigger for this particular collapse; if only he had chosen to flirt with that damned drug of his whilst I was out completing my errands, I would have not have found him with that tourniquet about his arm and his thumb upon the plunger. I did not see Holmes again for some hours, but when he did return he was visibly shaking from cold and soaked to the skin. Mrs Hudson, the poor soul, chose to follow Holmes up the seventeen steps to our main room, scolding him for dripping water everywhere and not minding his own well being each step of the way. Finally, Holmes entered the room and shut the door promptly behind him, blocking her mid word. Not once did I hear him reply to her accusations, nor did he even glance in my direction. Apparently, he had still not forgiven my interruption. Instead, he slowly walked towards his armchair, dripping water as he did so. I contemplated commenting upon the state of him, but thought otherwise as he dropped a bag I had not noticed him carrying next to the unlit fireplace. He hesitated, as if unwilling to leave the bag in my sight then took leave of the room, slamming the door behind him.

I had not known Sherlock Holmes for long, but already I had begun to adapt to his strange switches in mood and even stranger habits. Some days he would refuse any form of food, and would only accept weak tea and the strongest tobacco available, other days he would drag me out all over the country in any weather at even the slightest hint of an interesting case. It first appeared as though that night he would be unwilling to take care of himself, but I soon found myself corrected as he re-entered the room fully changed into a set of dry clothes. I had half expected him to be wearing that tattered old dressing gown of his, the one stained with chemicals and ruined with scorch marks. Once again, I was treated with the same cold, detached manner as before; I was completely ignored as if I weren't there at all. I watched as he made his way cautiously over to his armchair in an almost reluctant manner; it was rather strange even for him but I did not comment upon his odd behaviour lest I anger him again. It was not the strangest thing I had ever witnessed my friend doing.

His fingered lightly skimmed the lacquered surface of his Stradivarius and his brow furrowed as if contemplating something he would never elaborate on to me. After a few moments of simply looking down thoughtfully at his instrument, he picked it up gently as though it were is his time ever seeing such a work of art. I suppose for him, his violin symbolised much more than it was obvious to me, for I knew nothing of violins before renting the room upstairs. What puzzled me most was his reluctance to disturb the remaining three strings, for not once did I hear even an accidental tone pierce the heavy silence. I could not help but notice a distinct lack of scratches upon its surface, even though many a time I had found that Holmes had not put his violin away properly and simply left it laying wherever he cared to leave it. I had lost count of the amount of times I had nearly sat down on top of it.

The bag he had brought home with him was quickly retrieved from where it lay, and I watched in curiosity as he opened it and brought out a brand new bow and a new E string. I have not a clue as to where he bought such items at this hour, but I was immensely relieved that he had chosen to do something constructive with his time out in the rain instead of brooding, as he was prone to doing. The bow itself was a beautiful creation and complimented his Stradivarius wonderfully. I opened my mouth to comment upon its craftsmanship but once again thought better of it. Holmes smiled at me slightly, obviously appreciating my silence. I was very much relived that his mood had lifted from earlier, and continued to watch him carefully appraise the new bow.

A minute or two passed in this fashion, with Holmes examining every inch of the new bow with a critical eye and myself watching him do so to the sound of rain upon the window glass. Finally, he sighed and lay the bow upon the floor at his feet. Taking up the E string, I watched as he unravelled the finest string of the set with skilled hands. With the E string in his right hand and the Stradivarius resting lightly upon his leg, he hooked the end of the string into the tail-piece and pulled it tight. I winced as I watched the wire cut into his thumb slightly, yet he paid it no notice and threaded the string through the topmost peg with great care. He paused, evaluating the position of the string, before taking it out and attempting it once again. Holmes was indeed a perfectionist when it came down to this particular activity. After he was satisfied, he held the violin steady with his leg hand and wound the peg with his right, occasionally plucking the string. I was initially surprised at how quickly Holmes managed to find the perfect tautness of the E, yet after all these years I have come to realise just how musically gifted he really is. He relaxed once he had successfully tuned the instrument, yet his gaze lingered upon the bow at his feet. Before I could blink, he snatched up the knife from the mantelpiece and took a small box filled with a strange amber-coloured block from his pocket.

''I cannot but help notice your curiosity. This, my dear Watson, is a substance known as Rosin. It is made from a special type of sap, that in powder form, clings to the strings of a bow. It both holds and releases strings constantly.''

I raised my eyebrows in surprise; Holmes was speaking to me again much sooner than I first thought he would. The concept of this 'Rosin' confused me somewhat so I, not wanting his mood to dwindle again, asked him to elaborate. ''Rosin? Forgive me Holmes, but you already know I know nothing of musical instruments.''

He smiled warmly, and whilst scraping the sharpened blade over the block of Rosin, explained a little more to me.

''Then I shall explain more to you so that you might understand. Rosin, as I have already said, is a type of sap. It is taken specifically from Pine trees, and because it both holds and releases the bow strings, the strings vibrate much better. Without Rosin, a violin is utterly useless. A blank canvas without a painter; infinite potential but very unlikely to be paid attention to.'' After scraping the knife across the block, he ran the bow strings across it to collect the powder. I shuddered as I imagined Mrs Hudson's reaction to the dust as it fell upon the rug as he did so. It would be somewhat difficult to remove. Holmes smiled again as if sensing my thoughts, but otherwise said or did nothing but continue to apply the Rosin.

''Holmes, the hour is late. I really should retire soon.''

He paused momentarily as if my declaration surprised him. ''Won't you stay for a tune or two? You have sat in silence for at least an hour watching me prepare my violin, the least I could do is let you hear the result first hand.'' He paused again, unsure of what to say. ''Especially after my terrible attitude towards you earlier. Consider it an apology.''

The offer was a totally new one to me, for I had only ever heard Holmes play through the walls of my room, and even then it was always too early in the morning for me to properly appreciate his musical talent. I smiled and nodded. Sleep could wait for now.

''Excellent! Would you prefer any tune in particular?''

''Play what you feel like playing Holmes. I cannot possibly choose.''

He nodded and placed the violin at his shoulder, although he did not start playing until he was stood at our window overlooking the darkened street. After a moment or two of peaceful silence, he drew the bow experimentally across each string, staring with the the lowest. After the E, he returned back to the G, which then merged into a nameless yet beautiful tune seamlessly. I was in awe of the raw emotion behind each individual note, each stroke of the bow, each and every time he swayed slightly in rhythm to a song I would never know the name of. Never before had I thought it possible for a piece of music to say more than any letter, yet as soon as he started to play I instantly knew why it was that the violin was held so dear to him whilst other things were not. As a surgeon, the only instruments I had ever learned to master were the scalpel and tourniquet. For the Consulting Detective stood in front of me, I knew the violin was not only an instrument; it was the only method he had of truly expressing his emotions. I was a fool for never realising before that night. Finally, his song came to a gentle end, and he turned on the spot to witness my reaction. Words would never be able to express what I thought of his music, and he smiled widely as I told him as such. The violin was very much an extension of his soul, a creation built specifically for him, maintained and cared for more than even his own health. I was honoured and remain honoured to this day to have the privilege of being audience to such shows of unrestrained emotion on a regular basis, for even when he cannot find the will to speak, his music will tell me everything he wishes me to know and more.


	3. Corruption

Warnings: Dark!fic with Dark!Watson and Dark!Lestrade. Disturbing imagery I think.

The clock on the mantelpiece strikes nine, signalling the first signs of a summer night. The air is still heated from the day; shadows are elongating dramatically with every passing minute, every passing second. The ordinary, everyday inhabitants of London have long returned home, leaving much more space for the nocturnal filth of their kind. Tonight, the monsters of the world will come out to play as they do every night without fail, abandoning their careful masks and respectful professions in favour of a darker, more sinister cloak. Workers and aristocrats alike will disappear into the shadows for an hour or four, seeking a type of bliss only the dark secluded corners and guarded safe houses can provide. And provide they do; one would only need to provide the correct currency to openly pick their pleasure and not be judged or questioned about it.

People will go missing tonight, never to be seen again. This side of London is recognised by all who witness it, but so few of them will really understand just what goes on as the clock strikes ten. Even fewer will care. None will speak of it before the hour of nine. None will openly acknowledge that they partake in such vices, yet all will think about it constantly and have their eyes set about the clock, counting down to that very second where they may don the dark cloak and dagger. Nine is the official time, ten is when they meet. Eleven is never spoken about the morning after, even to those of the same base desires. Twelve is never spoken out aloud at all. Those who do find themselves locked out; scum amongst scum, traitors amongst thieves, damned amongst the deviants, murderers and rapists. Every single member who carries out their business after nine will damn those who betray them, for they all carry the invisible mark. Jewellers, carriage drivers and taxidermists are amongst them; members of Scotland Yard are involved as much as the next man from the next job. Even Doctors partake, and it is tonight that a certain Doctor Watson will take the stage for the amusement of all.

The stage itself is a perfectly square room, hidden beneath a pet shop named 'Dawney and Co'. It is run by a newly married couple, and it is the first time they have had the honour of hosting tonight's event at their work place. The building is not theirs, they simply own the business, which makes tonight's entertainment much more sinister and oh so much more exciting, brilliant and perfect. The real owner of the building is a highly respected gentleman who owns a string of premises, and is of course completely clueless as to what is about to unfold.

In the back room, Doctor John Watson stands in front of a full-length mirror, straightening the lapels of his jacket and retying his cravat. With a fond smile, he removes his bowler from the hat-stand and places it on his head. Tonight will be a good night, for he is prepared and enjoying the pure anticipation provided by simply being in a place such as this. He pats down the left side of his jacket, savouring the quiet tinkle of metal lining the inside; the trusty tools of his trade. He can hear the tick of his pocket watch and glances down at the time. It is sixteen minutes to twelve, yet he is alert and ready. He doesn't think he has ever been as ready as he is the moment it becomes fifteen minutes. With one last look in the mirror, he spins on his heels to face the door behind him and takes a deep breath. The door opens for him, for he is expected and welcomed with open arms.

He strides into the square room, instantly taking in his surroundings. He recognises some of the faces. Lestrade nods to him; there is an odd light trapped within his eyes tonight, but it is a light only seen past the hour of nine. John recognises the expression well and nods back. Compared with Sherlock, he was but an eager student in the presence of a master. Tonight, John Watson is the master of his own trade, and tonight he is to openly demonstrate his skills whilst the leering faces surrounding him watch with hellish glee. Tonight, they are the eager students and he is the aloof teacher.

A makeshift table has been prepared for him beforehand; four large packaging crates in a row, covered by an extensive white cloth. The 'table' is located in the centre, but it receives little or no attention at all for all eyes are upon the respectable John Watson. The room goes deathly silent for a moment; a penny could drop and there wouldn't be a single person present who wouldn't hear it. The silence is full of expectation. Watson clears his throat and bows. The entire population of the room break out in applause. Some even cheer and stamp their feet, knowing that they won't be heard from outside. There is a sharp cry and the room goes silent once again, for they know that the woman being dragged down the corridors deserves her fate at the hands of the Doctor. From that point onwards, the only things that exists in John's world are that woman and the tools held close to his heart. She screams again as three men force her onto the table. She is strapped down but not gagged. They are never gagged. John shivers as his hand disappears into his jacket. For the first time, he speaks out aloud, a silver scalpel now in hand.

''The subject is of approximately twenty five years of age and is of the female gender. Ladies and gentlemen, this woman is not only a serial adulterer, she attempted to betray us to the police. Luckily, chief inspector Lestrade here was the very person she spoke to. Her husband is amongst your ranks and personally requested my... services. If there is any man or woman amongst you that wish to see this harlot live past tonight, you are welcome to voice your opinion.''

The room remains silent. Watson nods to nobody in particular. ''Very well then.'' He runs the scalpel gently across the bare skin of her stomach, ignoring her frantic attempts to free herself. Of course, many have tried to escape before, yet only one has ever managed such a thing. John presses down harder with the cutting edge of his blade, happily recalling the memory as beads of blood well up from the shallow cut. The woman's struggles become more frantic.

''If I were in your position I would cease moving. My hand can only be so steady after all...'' He lets his voice trail off, sickeningly soft and in a reassuring tone. For a moment, brown eyes meet the Doctors ice blue ones. She will not live past the hour of twelve.

As always, reviews are welcome.


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